Throttle rolled on, raising the rpm. Squeezing the front brake with the same hand. Looking forward as the track official spins both hands around one another. Nothing but the deep throaty roar of two bikes ready to do battle. Thumping, vibrations crawling through the ground into anyone standing near the starting line. Left hand opens, the clutch engages, spinning the rear tire around and around. Smoke fills the air, as the tire heats up and grows just fractions taller. Easing off the brake the bike launches out of the water box; ready to race.

Lining the track on both sides are bleachers packed with fans. It’s early September, and a beautiful day to be at the track. There is the constant sweet scent of race fuel filling the air. Only occasionally getting masked over with the smell of burnt rubber from the burn out pit. Husband and wife, sitting talking, while their child tries to eat an ice cream cone. Harley guys in sleeveless shirts all lined up, leaning forward on the fence, drinking ice cold beer. Concession stands are running, and pit crews working. While others scurry this way or that.

The racers flip the visors of their helmet’s closed, as they tip toe to the line. The heat is multiplied several times over in a full leather suit. Staring at a far away finish line, sweating from the heat. Bright red kill switch tether in the corner of the eye flirting. A reminder, people do fall off, people have fallen off. Both riders light up the first stage light. Neither playing any games, but exchanging gazes as they prepare. Clutch squeezed in, reaching with a thumb for a button to hold the clutch there, so that fingers are free to fully grip the handlebars. Feet in position ready to be thrown up, and thrust onto the pegs at any moment. Both riders inching forward, until the second stage light is set. The crowd grows silent in anticipation. Arguments have subsided, beer drinking postponed. All heads turn to the starting line, and the sound of both engines hitting a rev. protector fill the air.

Thinking was yesterday on the long truck ride up here. Thinking was last night when sleep did not come, and this morning at breakfast time, not now. Now, yellow lights flash. One, two,  and three, down the tree. Then, GREEN! Throttles held wide open, as clutches release, and front tires raise. Slamming the bikes onto their wheelie bars. Testing the welds. Testing a winter’s worth of work. All the weight is shifted backwards. Squatting the rear tire, making it grab, making it work. In the right lane, a bright yellow light flashes as the motor’s rumble builds. One thumb press of a button, and the bike shifts. The tires are still grabbing the track, thank God. Hearing the new gear kick in and nothing else. Over sixty feet out in less than two seconds; still carrying the front wheel. Vision narrowing, the motor winds up, another shift light. Another push of the button. Third gear comes on strong. This motor is alive. No one is in front as the cam kicks in, and no one will be. With nothing but the finish line in sight, the motor winds ups; yellow light flashing. Another button pressed, and the bike shifts to fourth. Eyes closed off to the world. Holding the throttle wide open, the mind is calm. Last shift, fifth gear! The bike screams across the thousand foot mark. Head tucked the rider is in a zone eyes set on the track ahead.

The finish line is crossed and, the riders times are displayed above each lane. Clutch in and throttled down, the engine goes almost silent. Head still tucked, the front brake squeezes the rotor. As the bike slows it no longer feels weightless. Slowing way down, avoiding the sand pit, both bikes take the turn off road. Once out of the way, the racers stop, and shift back into first gear. Then they head for their time slips. Briefly stopping to get a time slip from a small building that could fit no more than two people. Both rider, and track official exchange smiles. The rider shoves the receipt like paper into his jacket, and heads off.

Both riders cruise the return road back into the pits. Avoiding any cracked up sections of asphalt that could possibly damage the super light race wheels. Greeted by the other half of the team with smiles. The rider goes under the tent they had earlier set up behind their trailer. Shutting off the bike, no words are exchanged. Everyone knows what they are doing. One crew member lifts the bike by the wheelie bar, sliding a block of wood underneath for a kickstand. As another plugs in a battery charger, and removes a tank cover, so the pint sized cylinder lying beneath can be topped off with race fuel. Once freed from both helmet and gloves the rider gets a refreshing breeze of air from the fan set up to cool the bike. The time slip is looked at, then handed off; to be kept in the teams records.  Next a congratulations to all involved. Then the conversation begins, on how to win the next race.